


Sweet as Apple Pie

by aloneintherain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Cake, Family, Fluff, Gen, New York City, Schmoop, peter's changing relationship with baking/his aunt may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6882901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben moved to scoop up their nephew, but May stabbed a finger at him. “Ben Parker, you are interrupting our cooking show.”</p><p>Ben glanced at the TV and immediately took several steps out of the room, nodding in understanding. “I hadn’t realised it was Sacred Cooking Show Time, sorry, sorry. I’ll be slaving in the garden if anyone needs me.”</p><p>“Cooking show time!” Peter gasped happily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet as Apple Pie

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts folder for over a year, but I finally got around to finishing and uploading it. I binge-watch a lot of cake tutorials on YouTube, and Aunt May and Peter's relationship means _so much_ to me, so this was inevitable.
> 
> This was inspired by my headcanon that Peter enjoys reality shows, and cooking shows are a special form of bonding between him and Aunt May. Fluff was quick to follow.

At six years old, Peter could only just see over the kitchen counter. He was a skinny, frail thing, all bony knees and big eyes hidden behind bigger glasses. There were bandages on his bloodied knees—he’d tripped chasing bugs, Peter had told them, but there was something about the hand shaped bruises on his forearm that made May think otherwise.

He’d only been with them for little over three years, but already, Peter had transformed her and Ben’s life completely.

“You should be resting,” she reminded him. Peter rubbed at his red nose with the back of his pyjama sleeve. He leaned into the plush layers of her skirt, shrugging meekly, a cough rumbling in his chest.

She bent down, knees cracking. With a gentle hand, May tipped his chin up and met his fever bright eyes.

“’s lonely,” Peter mumbled, one tiny fist bunched in her skirt. “I like the kitchen.”

“You’ve got all those books in your room. And your DS. And your puzzles. Why would you want to be down here, watching me cook a boring cake for the new neighbours?”

“You’re here,” Peter said. May felt her heart melt underneath the shy, earnest glance her nephew shot her. “It’s warm, and it smells so nice… I like watching you bake. It’s—it’s like science.”

“Well, alright,” May allowed, “but if you start feeling sick again, you tell me, alright? And once we’re done, you’re going to go sleep your flu off.”

Ten minutes later, Peter’s favourite dragon blanket was pulled over his Ravenclaw pyjamas. He sat on a neighbouring countertop. May made sure he was warm, a pillow propping him up, legs pulled away from the edge. A stack of books sat beside him, in case he got bored, but he never did. He watched attentively as May poured out cups of flour, cracked eggs, beat butter with sugar.

May wouldn’t let the sick child help, but Peter was content to snuggle into his blanket and watch with hooded eyes.

She slide the wet cake into the oven, and turned the timer on. She scooped up her tiny helper, blanket and all, and carried him into the living room. When they sat down on the couch, Peter stayed in her arms.

“Can I watch you frost it?” Peter mumbled into her neck.

“Of course.” She ran a smoothing hand through his sweaty hair, and hummed. “What colour?”

“Can we decorate it like a rocket ship?”

“I doubt the Watsons would like a rocket ship cake, sweetheart.”

“Who doesn’t like rocket ships?” Peter demanded, personally offended on behalf of all rocket ships.

May laughed, and for a moment, seriously considered presenting the new family next door with a rocket ship cake, if only to make her nephew happy. It would certainly be a way to break the ice.

“How about when you get better, we’ll make a rocket ship cake together? Just for us?”

Peter pulled away from her hold. He blinked up at her with wide, awed eyes. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Oh, Peter.” She pressed her palm against his cheek, and he leaned into it, chasing the coolness offered to him. The warmth of his fever seeped into her hand. “I’d do anything for you,” she promised.

Peter pressed his face shyly back into her neck. “Can… Can Uncle Ben have some of the rocket ship cake, too?”

“That’s up to you, sweetheart.”

“A rocket ship cake… for me, and Aunt May, and Uncle Ben,” Peter whispered to himself. The wonder in his voice made May press him closer, as if she could assure him of their love by this simple touch. As if she could keep him here forever, safe and warm in her arms.

 

* * *

 

 “Is Aunt May okay?”

“She’s fine, Peter,” Ben assured their nephew, a hand burying into the ten year old’s hair. He leaned into it, like he always did; May wasn’t looking forward to when he was older and would flinch out of those close touches. When Peter was sixteen, eighteen, twenty, he probably wouldn’t let Ben ruffle his hair casually like that.

“She doesn’t look fine,” Peter argued.

“She’s right here and can hear you both,” May said loudly. Peter peeked guilty over the couch at her, worried eyes big. “I am fine, Peter.”

“You don’t _look_ fine! Or sound it!”

She laughed, the sound throaty and rough. “Come here, Peter,” she beckoned.

“May,” Ben tried.

“He won’t get sick; he’s already had this.”

“I don’t want him bothering you.”

When Peter was close enough, May scooped him up. She was sore, her whole body weak, but Peter was still so small and easily malleable. He laughed as she tucked him closer.

“Peter? Bother me?” May said. “Never, Ben.”

Ben sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. Peter clambered onto the couch, and May lifted the corner of the comforter for him to cuddle up close to her.

“If you say so…”

“Oh, go mow the lawn already, like you promised.”

“Yeah!” Peter echoed. “Go mow the lawn already!”

Ben rolled up the Saturday newspaper and swatted it at Peter. The ten year old squawked and ducked beneath the blankets, taking shelter in his Aunt’s protective embrace.

“Careful, or I’ll make you mow it with me,” Ben warned with a smile. Peter peeped out of the blankets, just enough to stick his tongue out at his Uncle. “Okay, _that’s_ it—”

Ben moved to scoop up their nephew, but May stabbed a finger at him. “Ben Parker, you are interrupting our cooking show.”

Ben glanced at the TV and immediately took several steps out of the room, nodding in understanding. “I hadn’t realised it was Sacred Cooking Show Time, sorry, sorry. I’ll be slaving in the garden if anyone needs me.”

“Cooking show time!” Peter gasped happily.

May pushed his head down. His hair stuck out, tickling her chin. It needed a comb. She folded the comforter over the both of them, and decided to scold him about it another day.

They fell into silence, entranced by the hum of the TV, the distant rumble of Ben’s lawn mower, and May’s congested breathing. The onscreen bakers were scrambling to fix a wedding cake with crumbling frosting hours before it was to be delivered. Peter wriggled. He was uncomfortable, or maybe he was too hot, or maybe he was growing bored with their longstanding tradition.

“Aunt May,” Peter began, soft and hesitant. Not bored or too hot then; guilty. She knew her nephew. She was familiar with his turbulent, anxious emotions, the way they rocked him, the way they threatened to ruin him one day. She ran a clammy hand through his hair. He was such a sensitive boy.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Are you…” Peter fidgeted in her hold, hands tangling nervously together. “Are you sick because of me?”

“Oh, Peter.”

“Be honest!”

“I am,” she admitted. He didn’t stiffen, but went lax, loose under the weight of that. He nodded, resigned, against her arm. “But it’s my job, okay? Do you remember how ill you got last year, when you insisting on bringing your sick Uncle dinner in bed every night?” Peter’s nod was small, tentative. “Would you have stopped if you knew you were going to catch his flu?”

“No,” Peter allowed.

“Why’s that?”

“Because… because I love him, and I wanted him to be get better as soon as he could.”

“You wanted to look after him.” Peter nodded again, yes. “And I wanted to look after _you_ when you were sick last week. Because I love you. Because we’re family.”

Onscreen, the wedding cake was fixed. The camera paned over the finished product, showing each row of flowers, each fold of frosted icing. The Tylenol was beginning to kick in; May’s headache was slowly retreating.

“Even though you got sick?” Peter asked.

“Peter,” May said firmly, “I would get sick a hundred times over if it meant I could still look after you when you needed me.”

“Yeah,” Peter said quietly, almost lost beneath the swell of the show’s closing credits, “me, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

The house was empty and dark. It seemed so much bigger, these days.

Peter crept in on tip-toes, hands on the straps of his backpack. His hood was up, hair still sweaty and tasselled from the mask. His Spider-Man suit was stuffed between textbooks in his bag.

The floorboard creaked under his sneaker. Peter froze. From the living room, Aunt May’s shaky voice floated out, “Peter?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Peter said. He was already busted. No point in lying. “Sorry, I was just—just—”

Aunt May was curled in the corner of the couch, illuminated by the otherworldly glow of the TV. Her dressing gown was tucked around her, a fistful of tissues on her lap. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks blotchy. Peter dropped his backpack carelessly by the wall, and slid onto the couch, an arm wrapping around her and pulling her close.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, “it’s okay—”

“Where were you?” she demanded; there was only pleading in her wobbly voice, no anger, no heat.

“I was… I was. I went for a walk. I’m sorry.”

One of her hands bunched in Peter’s faded Bill Nye shirt. She fought against the hitch in her breath, trying to be strong for him, but it was too much. She couldn’t stop her cheeks from getting wet. She couldn’t stop the sob that made her chest heave and Peter flinch against her.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

She shook her head, hair dancing, strands getting stuck in her tear-tracks. She pulled him closer, and he obliged, letting them curl up on the couch. Together, they only took up one cushion. This house really was too big for the two of them.

The muted TV was zoomed into a pair of hands folding pastry. Chopped apple pieces sat by the knife. Peter couldn’t recognise which cooking show it was.

“You missed dinner,” she told him once her breathing evened out.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as earnest as the first apology.

“It’s alright. I’m just. I’m just not used to eating by myself. I’m not used to eating without—”

It’d only been a week. The dining table only had four seats. One for each of them, and a guest. It felt empty even with Peter there.

“I’ll be there tomorrow night,” Peter promised.

Aunt May’s laughter was hitched, a little desperate, a little wet, but not mean. She very rarely sounded mean, even these days, when she had every right to be. Especially to Peter. She deserved better than him.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart,” she said. She fell quiet. Her eyes grew wet again.

“We should make apple pie sometime,” Peter said. The host had moved on to crafting the crust, malleable and soft in her careful hands. The movements were methodical, easy.

“Okay,” Aunt May said, like she didn’t believe.

“We don’t make pastry dishes enough. I could grab us some vanilla ice cream to go with it.”

“Just remember to take it out of the oven this time,” Aunt May said. Her smile was faint, barely there, but Peter felt accomplished none-the-less. The remembrance of the charred, warped remains of their last baking-escapade was enough to make his lips twitch, too.

“I’ll buy a new timer,” Peter said quietly.

She nodded against him, and again, he knew she didn’t believe him. Peter let his head droop, chin resting on the flattened edge of her ponytail. They didn’t go up to bed until the TV’s apple pie was resting on the countertop, golden and crispy, gleaming under artificial studio lights.

 

* * *

 

 The cake was a towering masterpiece. It sat in the middle of the store, all of its five pale pink tiers decorated with bunted fondant, eatable lace, and layered with flowers.

Peter knew that each individual flower was handmade. Each creased petal, each seemingly careless raindrop, placed with precision. It would have taken hours.

And Peter had almost crushed it.

He stopped himself by sticking to the edge of the table, feet firmly planted, using all his strength to halt his momentum. He hovered inches away from the smooth, perfect exterior, before collapsing backward onto the carpet. Safe.

“Sorry!” Peter said loudly as he sprung back up. Everyone in the store was staring at him. “I am so sorry!”

“Um,” said the manager, shifting behind the counter, “ _Spider-Man?_ What—?”

“SPIDER-MAN!” The two villains that had double-teamed him, the ones responsible for throwing Peter through the shining storefront of the expensive cake shop, landed inside the store, boots crunching on the shattered glass spilt out over the carpet.

“You guys are _still_ after me?” Peter said idly. He laughed a little. “You want a slice of the action? Beating you guys will be a piece of cake.”

The two weren’t much of a threat. The one dressed in mustard yellow lycra glowered at him. The other, purple cape folded behind him, was distracted, too busy gaping at the elaborate cakes displayed throughout the store.

“You won’t be talking for much longer,” said Mustard Yellow Lycra. He heaved his laser gun—the thing a bulked-out version of the phasers from _Star Trek;_ Peter was grudgingly impressed—and pointed it at Peter.

“Wait, no!” Peter waved his hands around. “Can’t we do this outside?” The villain’s phaser was warming up, glowing a dull, warning green. “Dude! Look at these cakes, you’ll destroy them if you fire that thing in here!”

Purple Cape eyed the huge cake behind Peter. “Actually, I think Spider-Man might have a point—”

“Are you _abandoning_ me?” snapped Mustard Yellow. “After all we’ve been through?”

Purple Cape shook his head. “No, I’d never! But look at all these cakes, so much work must have gone into—”

“I thought you were supporting me in this,” said Mustard Yellow, looking genuinely hurt. Peter felt uncomfortable, like he was stuck in the middle of a bickering couple. “You said you wanted to viciously murder Spider-Man, too.”

“I do, I do want to viciously murder Spider-Man!” Purple Cape placed a hand on the other man’s lycra shoulder, his eyes going soft and sincere. “You know I do, but you know how much I like baking, too. It just won’t be right, ruining these cakes…”

“No one’s saying you can’t viciously murder me,” Peter agreed, “but let’s just take this outside, away from the multi-thousand dollar cakes, okay?”

Mustard Yellow looked appropriately contrite—or as appropriately contrite as one can look, moments from murdering someone in a cake store—but as he began to lower his gun, the nozzle lit up without his consent. Peter had to duck to avoid being shot through the stomach.

The beam destroyed the cake in one swoop. Frosting splattered everywhere, revealing chunks of sponge cake like the innards of a destroyed stuffed animal. Sugar flowers were thrown across the store.

The manager leapt forward, as though she could single-handedly stop the ensuing fight. “NO!”

People screamed and sprinted out of the store. In the chaos, Mustard Yellow fired two more shots, and Peter had no choice but to return with sprays of web. Purple Cape watched on with horror as the fight slowly, ruthless destroyed the store. Cake after perfect cake fell, painting the carpet with buttercream icing.

By the time Mustard Yellow was laid out in the middle of the store, bound in webs, Peter panting over him, the store was a mess. It looked like the aftermath of a great battle, decorated in the corpses of past cakes.

Purple Cape surrendered easily. As he was kneeled on the floor, hands submissively held above his head, he hissed to his bound partner, “I want to break up.”

“Ouch,” Peter said to Mustard Yellow.

Behind the safety of the counter, the manager rose shakily to her feet. Tears welled in her eyes. “My god…”

“I really am sorry,” Peter said. Cake was smeared down the front of his suit, his gloves covered in frosting; it properly wasn’t a very effective apology. He genuinely felt bad, though.

Peter usually didn’t stick around for the aftermath of fights, but he did for this one, mostly out of guilt. The police arrived, whisked away the two villains, and still Peter stayed, a silent presence by the manager’s side. He had a hand on her arm. Through the contact, Peter could feel how badly she was shaking. She smiled at him, wobbly, a little wet, so Peter assumed she appreciated it.

Her mascara was smudged, and her hair was falling out of her bun, but she was unharmed. Her name tag read, _Carol_.

“Well,” Carol said as the police car holding the two villains drove away, “I guess we can’t let all this cake go to waste.”

Peter looked to her. “Huh?”

Carol collected a knife from the back of the store, and began to cut into the cake by the counter. It’s top tier was destroyed, but the bottom two layers were intact. “Would you like a slice, Spidey?”

A piece of cake—sponge stacked in rainbow colours, the icing elaborately swirled—was pushed into his hands. Peter stared down at the cake, worth more than the Parkers spent on groceries in a month—and blurted, “I can’t accept this!”

“You saved me, and my store,” she said.

Peter looked pointedly around the store. The huge piles of cake on the floor, smeared on the walls, the counter, the _ceiling_.

“Okay,” she relented, “so maybe you didn’t save my cakes, but you tried to. And I’m fine. My customers are fine. No one got hurt.”

Peter bit his lip, unsure. He’d skipped lunch, but it wrong to eat the offering. It felt wrong to eat something he didn’t pay for. It felt wrong to eat cake without his Aunt.

“Eat the damn cake, Spidey,” she told him firmly, as she began to divvy up the eatable cakes into slices. She whistled, and the remaining cops glanced her way. “Hey, who wants some cake!”

Paramedics arrived at the scene. They treated bruises and minor cuts, but the customers—the ones who’d stayed, hidden beneath tables or ducked into the back rooms—were largely unharmed. Carol, uncaring of her frizzed up hair and the thick icing smeared down her smock, went around offering free pieces. Everyone accepted eagerly. The police officers looked like excited children. (Peter felt a little better, sharing cake with this crowd assuaging something instinctual inside him that associated baked sweets with others, with family.)

Peter pointed at one of the other cakes toward the back left of the store. One of the chocolate castle torrents had been knocked over by an errant blast, exposing raspberry sponge cake beneath, but the majority of the fairytale cake was untouched.

“Does that cake,” Peter began, eyes wide beneath his mask, “have a _working waterfall?”_

Carol smirked at Peter’s gaping expression. “Sure does.”

“You, m’am,” Peter said, “are a cake _god._ ”

Carol laughed and popped another piece of strawberry cake into her mouth. “Yeah, I know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter felt guilty about the cake splattered walls of the expensive bakery, but he had to admit, this was nice. This, sitting cross-legged on the frosting smudged carpet, a trio of happy cops munching on cake slices beside him, was _nice_.

“My Grammy used to make this amazing cheesecake,” said the closest man, early thirties, a dreamy smile and a streak of cream on his face. “Blueberries and homemade biscuit crust…”

“I’m more of a chocolate mud-cake kind of man,” admitted the second cop.

“Nah, _red velvet,”_ said the third officer. She was sucking on her plastic spoon, and had almost bounced out of her police vest when the manager had offered her a slice of raspberry sponge cake. “How about you, Spidey?”

The three officers turned to him, expectant. Peter thought for a moment.

“I dunno,” he said with a spray of crumbs. “Homemade stuff, I guess. It’s more genuine.” He waved his hands, even though Carol was on the other side of the broad store, on the phone with the owner. “Not—not that I don’t think places like this aren’t awesome! Because people still worked really hard on these cakes, and I love that, I just mean, like, cakes made in factories turn me off—”

The cops laughed at him, good natured. Peter flushed beneath the privacy of his mask.

Carol came back with cakes stacked into boxes. She shoved a towering pile at the officers, to take back to the station, or to their families, before handing one to Peter.

“Do you have someone to take this back to?” Carol asked. “I mean—not that you have to tell me about them—”

Peter shuffled. “… my mom, actually.”

Carol looked at him. The cops were gone. The store was quiet around them.

“Tell her I said thank you, then. For—for raising you.” She rubbed at the back of her neck, a little embarrassed. “I’ve been a fan of yours for a long while, actually.”

“I’ll tell her,” Peter said. It made Carol smile.

Peter stumbled home as the sun was going down. Aunt May was pulling vegetables out of fridge, hiding a yawn behind her hand. She startled at the huge box plopped onto her counter.

“Um,” he said, when she peered suspiciously at him, “happy birthday?”

“My birthday was four months ago. You bought me flowers.”

“Happy un-birthday, then!”

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Peter Parker—”

Peter cracked the box open. Inside, several messy slices of cake stared up at them. The frosting was stuck to the box’s sides, the slices unevenly cut from a half-destroyed cake, but Aunt May’s smile bloomed bright and real at the sight, all her ire draining away.

“Dinner?” he proposed.

“Cooking shows?” she countered.

“You turn the TV on, I’ll get the plates.”

He put away the vegetables. In the other room, Aunt May found a recorded episode of the Great British Bake Off. Peter collected plates and spoons, divvied up the cake between them, and poured glasses of milk. They settled on the couch, knees brushing, the TV turned up loud, light flickering over them. These days, the house didn’t feel quite so empty.

“Hey, Aunt May?” She hummed. Peter swallowed a mouthful of cake, shifting nervously, and said, “Thank you.”

She put her spoon down. “For what?”

Peter shrugged, playing with the icing of his cake. “Just thanks.”

Aunt May placed a hand on his wrist. The point of contact was familiar, and Peter leaned into it gratefully. “Oh, sweetheart,” she told him. “You don’t have to thank me. We’re family.”

Peter nodded, warm and jittery all at once. The empty, crumb splattered plates were placed on the coffee table, as they worked through the backlog of recorded cooking shows. Together.


End file.
